The Pit and the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel by M. S. Spencer

At midnight, in the darkness of a deserted hotel, comes a scream and a splash. Eighty-five years later, workmen uncover a skeleton in an old elevator shaft. Who is it, and how did it get there? To find out, Charity Snow, ace reporter for the Longboat Key Planet, teams up with Rancor Bass, best-selling author. A college ring they find at the dig site may prove to be their best clue.

Although his arrogance nearly exceeds his talent, Charity soon discovers a warm heart beating under Rancor’s handsome exterior. While dealing with a drop-dead gorgeous editor who may or may not be a villain, a publisher with a dark secret, and an irascible forensic specialist, Charity and Rancor unearth an unexpected link to the most famous circus family in the world.

Charity reflected that she had never disliked a person quite so thoroughly—not even that first boss who loved to put her down in front of the staff—but she understood that George’s reference to professionalism extended not just to Bass but to her. “I want to interview the Chart House staff.”

“I’ll go with you.”

She kept her eyes on George. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Bass.”

“Well, I want to.” He rose and dusted something minuscule from his faded jeans. “I need a drink. And besides, I can worm more information out of the waitresses than you can.”

Hateful. Absolutely, positively hateful.

Before she could come up with a crushing retort, George broke in. “Yes, take him along, Charity. We’d better get the story quickly—I don’t know when they’re planning to start demolition.”

Charity retrieved her cell phone and purse and led the way to her car. Bass regarded it with dismay. “Are you nuts? I can’t fit in a Mini Cooper.”

She looked him up and down. “What are you, six one?”

“And a half.”

Such a child. “You’ll fit.” She got in and started the engine. After a minute, his feet appeared, then his torso, and finally his head. He threw his jacket in the back and settled on the seat, his knees just grazing his nose.

“At least open the window so an extraneous appendage or two can stretch out.”

“All right.”

As they neared the entrance to the Longboat Key Club, a siren started up behind them. Charity pulled over to let two police cars and an ambulance go by. They turned into the club drive. She followed them.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to see where they’re going.”

“What are you—an ambulance chaser?”

“No…a professional journalist.”

The ambulance made a left and headed toward the building that housed the restaurant, but instead of pulling up to the entrance, it stopped in a corner of the parking lot. Charity drove past and parked in another section. By the time Rancor had unfolded himself from the seat, she had reached the first squad car. “Hey, Pete. What’s up?”

“Nope.” He gestured at a pile of broken asphalt. “Parking lot. Backhoe started breaking up the pavement in the southeast section and a sinkhole opened up. The foreman found bones at the bottom. Called a halt and us.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Nah.”

Two medics were working on something in a deep pit. One of them looked up. “Hey, Pete, I think we’re gonna need a specialist.” His face was tinged an unattractive green.

“You okay, Carl? What kind of specialist?”

“Forensics.” He turned away. They heard gagging.

The other EMT added, “And maybe one of those physical anthropologists. Or a dentist.” He helped Carl up and they climbed out of the pit.

“How come?”

He laughed. “’Cause from the looks of this joker, he’s been around a looonnnng time.”

Charity ached to get a look at the thing but knew Pete wouldn’t let her until they’d secured the scene. Rancor apparently felt no such compunction. He marched past the policeman and peered into the hole. Turning to Charity, he yelled, “I think we’ve found our ghost.”